Dragon Flight
by Seraphiim
Summary: History often forgets the origin of our Dovakhiin hero. She was not born a warrior, or a battle-mage, or a master archer. She in fact began her life in a quiet, unassuming steading as an Enchanter -and was quite happy with it too-, up until the day an unwanted and unwelcome destiny came calling.
1. Prologue

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was a little musing I had about my Skyrim character, Isabel. As those of you who have played the game know, the story begins with our hero being captured along with Ulfric and his band of merry men, but with no explanation as to how, what for, and why you were even there in the first place, besides maybe you just like a little bit of drama in your life. I imagined, in my own somewhat random mind, that the story behind this capture could be a whole new tale for the Dovakhiin, and maybe was even the reason their powers came to the forefront, as it were. And thus Isabel's story was born, one that I am making up pretty much on the wing and one I hope you enjoy reading almost as much as I enjoy writing it. Writing is, after all, as my good man Terry Pratchett once said, the most fun any one person can have by themselves. (And with their clothes on.)

As ever, reviews are extremely appreciated, as is constructive criticism and general misbehaviour. Much love,

Seraphiim.

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PROLOGUE.

ONE YEAR BEFORE THE RETURN OF ALDUIN, BRINGER OF THE END TIMES.

Summer was a coy thing, in the land of Skyrim. It would flirt and play with the best of intentions, on some days treating the rocks and hills of the hard terrain to a smothering of blistering light and heat, and then, on others, it would sulk behind heavy clouds and refuse to give up so much as a kiss. On this day, the day when our tale truly begins, it was one of the latter, and an unremarkable one at that. The sun, newly risen yet somewhat reticent, lurked behind a gray sky and the wind that swept through the pitiful houses of Rorikstead carried with it an edge that had been cultivated to a sharp chill in the snow of the nearby mountains.

Isabel Denadae pulled the warm folds of her wolf-skin cloak tighter around her shoulders and tried to ignore the bite of the wind as she filled up the horses' hay-nets, muttering to herself all the while about how a decent summer sun would at least have the courtesy to do more than tease. One of the horses, a massive dark bay beast built with muscles that made him look like the unspoken-of offspring of an elephant and a rhino, eyeballed her with one large eye and huffed, as though giving his entire opinion on the subject, then politely but firmly nosed past her to tug at the breakfast offering. The other, a slightly smaller but as equally muscled dapple gray, had already made a good start on his own and paid her absolutely no mind whatsoever, and even less than that as she wiggled her way back past them and out of the somewhat rickety stable stalls into what, for lack of a better word, shall be called the morning sun.

The little village, if the eclectic collection of houses and inn could be called such, was already awake and, whilst not bustling, was at least getting along with the day quite nicely. Here and there livestock roamed, either pecking optimistically at the road in the hopes some passing merchant or traveller had negligently upended an entire bag of corn without noticing, or otherwise roaming the surrounding terrain in the vague pretence of freedom but knowing at the same time they had a nice warm pen to be getting back to at the end of the day, and a free haircut. Isabel had always rather liked the quiet working-class attitude of the stead; the farmers farmed, the inn keeper kept, the guards guarded and herself and Ereldur… Well, they did what they did and kept out of everyone else's way. It was all so blissfully simple. They were honest people, with the exception of Lemkil, out here on the far reaches of civilisation; people who either didn't have the desire or the capability of living closer to the cities. They worked from sun up to sun down, kept their complaints to a minimum and -and here was the important bit- they were not even remotely interested in that dreadful beast known as politics.

"Ho, Miss Isa! You're up early. You headin' to Whiterun?" Ennis' voice startled her out of her reverie and she shook her head to clear her thoughts, glancing over to the man it belonged to in the nearby field, who was methodically working his way down the plot alongside the somewhat hard but extremely hardworking Reldith. She greeted them both with a smile, which was returned by Ennis and received a vague nod from Reldith, and nodded.

"Indeed we are. Either later today or first thing tomorrow, depending on himself. Need anything?" The difficult thing about the stead being so far out was the lack of supplies and the journey required to get them. Whilst everyone in the village tended to their own business, once a week herself and Ereldur would take the two horses and cart on the road to Whiterun for provisions, and it was an unspoken courtesy that anyone who needed anything, or perhaps wanted something sold or repaired whilst they were in the city, would find there was more than enough space in the cart. It was a tradition that dated back to when her mother had first moved there, and one Isabel had neither the heart nor the inclination to break. For one thing, theirs was the only serviceable horse and cart in the vicinity, and for another, favours were a strong currency in this world.

"Got me a couple of broken tools I wouldn't mind gettin' fixed, if there's room and it's not too putting you out too much..?" This was another part of the tradition; the question was a sheer matter of unassuming politeness, and Isabel answered with the expected reply.

"Of course not, there's plenty of room! Drop them in to us around lunch and I'll make sure they're on board with us when we leave." She tugged her cloak tighter about herself and started back towards her house with a farewell nod, only for Ennis to clear his throat and call out again, stopping her in her tracks.

"You, ah, you jus' be careful on them roads, miss. Was talkin' to young Billy-" 'young' Billy was one of the guards who frequently patrolled the province, and at least as old as Isa herself, who was into her mid twenties "-and he was saying there was a nasty attack a couple of days ago on a family of your lot. Not that your lot is any different from us, mind, I jus' mean they was of your way inclined. That being a good way, of course, miss. I just mean…" The poor man was floundering somewhat now, and was earning from the nearby Reldith a look hard enough to carve stone, leading Isabel to come to his rescue.

"An Altmer family, Mr Ennis?" She kept her face amicable, but inside she felt her stomach sink just a little. Another attack. There had been too many reported recently, flaring up over the countryside like little concentrated pockets of hatred and fear. It was this damned Stormcloak rebellion that they'd begun stirring up over the past few months. 'Skyrim is for the Nords' and all that. She'd experienced some of the hostility in Whiterun; higher than normal prices from a couple of the 'true' Nord merchants, malicious looks from others, watered down ale and whispers behind her back, but she'd never been outright attacked, and it was nothing compared to the abuse she'd seen some of her Dunmeri cousins get. She knew it would only get worse as hostilities between opposing fractions grew, too; it was always the average Joe who suffered in these things, never the instigators.

"Aye, Altmer." Ennis looked at her with the relief of a man who'd been offered an escape route, though it faded as his sombre voice went on. "Just a couple and their little girl, minding their own business, did right for 'em, though. Strung the husband up an' the wife, well, they… well, they did wrong things, miss Isa, and the little girl beaten so bad she was near dead when they found her. Young Billy said they been roaming the land looking for an excuse to cause trouble, an' now the Stormcloaks done give 'em one. Savages." The man's voice quivered a little towards the end, and Isabel felt her otherwise frozen heart warm a little for him. A good man who was alive to see the beginning of bad times.

"Thank you for your concern, Ennis. I will ensure we are extra vigilant on the roads, and you tell young Billy from me he knows where I am if he ever needs anything when passing through." She couldn't imagine finding such a scene was pleasant on the mind, and 'young' Billy was a good sort, even if he did sing extremely loud and extremely off-key after too much ale in the early hours. With a slightly sadder smile and a much sadder heart, she left the two to their farming and opened the door to the quaint little farm house she called home, making sure to beat the mud and dirt from her boots before stepping in.

It was a modest, somewhat clustered affair, consisting of all manner of living essentials, such as the bed, wardrobe, table and kitchen cupboards all crammed into one half of the space, whilst the other was dedicated to an Enchanting table that dominated most of the room. It was there she found Ereldur, sat on one of only two chairs they owned, oblivious to the world around him as he worked on picking apart the enchantment on an old necklace he'd picked up off a travelling pedlar. His hands glowed with a soft, pale light as he worked, calm and unrushed, mixing with the unnatural glow of the table itself and highlighting his face with an eerie touch. For a long moment she stood in the doorway and watched him, unaware of the smile on her face, studying the play of light in the gold of his hair and tan of his skin, the reflection in the bright amber of his eyes, before moving to him, gently placing her hand with her wedding ring on his shoulder and squeezing. He immediately stopped his work, the glow fading from his fingers as he placed the necklace on the table, and turned to look up at her with a grin.

"You were up early." He hooked one arm about her waist, pulling her down onto his lap, shifting so there was room between them and the table.

"I couldn't sleep." She twisted in his lap, picking up the necklace and examining it under the light of the nearby candles. She could see, in her minds eye, where the enchantment twisted into the metal, a streak of magic so tightly woven it was almost a part of the silver, and could see where exactly it needed to be tugged and teased until it unwound. She didn't, though, knowing how much he enjoyed figuring it out for himself, instead placing the necklace back down on the table and turning back to him.

"The dragon dreams again?" He lifted one hand to stroke a couple of loose strands of hair back from her face; hair that was as white as the snow in the hills, despite her age, and a sharp contrast to his own soft gold. She tried not to notice that that same hand that so tenderly touched her face was missing two of its fingers. To notice them was to get angry, and she didn't like to be angry around Ereldur.

"Yes. He didn't say anything this time. We just stood and looked at the sky for a long time, then he sort of just looked at me, directly iat/i me, almost through me, and I had this terrible sense of foreboding. I woke up and it was still early and I couldn't get the feeling to go away so I went out to see the horses…" Isa sighed, resting her forehead against his and closing her eyes. The dragon dreams had been a frequent occurrence for as long as she could remember, but never quite so frequently as now. Some times she felt the old gray dragon in them was one of her oldest friends, and other times as though she hardly knew him. Very rarely she felt in danger from him, and in total the dreams were neither welcome nor unpleasant, but mostly a distraction from an otherwise content nights sleep. They normally brought a headache with them, too, because sometimes the dragon spoke, in a voice like the roar of thunder, and sometimes she almost understood what he was saying to her, a glimpse of understanding that came like the flash of scales in a pond before it was gone. He hadn't said anything to her last night; just looked at her with that terrible, fathomless gaze, and it had been like looking into the heart of eternity. Isabel shivered and changed the subject, although, in retrospect, perhaps not to the best of topics. "There's been another attack."

Ereldur frowned at that, using his maimed hand to tilt her face up to his until she opened her eyes. "Bad?"

"Dead, and their little girl nearly the same." She let out a long sigh, picking herself up out of her husbands lap and unfastening her cloak, folding it neatly on top of the chest of drawers near their bed. "A child, I mean… What harm can a child do to you, really? What kind of depraved mind thinks, 'alright, let's kill the father, rape the mother and then beat Oblivion out of an innocent little girl because they're a different race to us'?" She found she was pacing now, her anger bubbling up with sadness, boiling in her skin, and quickly stopped, trying to calm herself. She had a volatile temper at best, and when she was thoroughly provoked, things had been known to set on fire. When your house was mostly constructed of wood and flammable objects, it was generally not a good reaction to have.

"In this world exists all kinds of minds, depraved or otherwise, my love." Ereldur levered himself up from the chair with a great deal of effort and, Isa was sure, a greater deal of pain. She watched him warily, ready to go to him should he need it, but other than that she didn't offer to help. He didn't like to be reminded of his injuries, war wounds though they were, and she had learnt early on in their relationship he found any offer of unnecessary help to be insulting. Besides his maimed hand the hollow of his neck bore a thick scar and the left side of his pelvis had been shattered, leaving him with a permanent limp and even more permanent pain. Not that he would go to a healer or an alchemist for some relief; men could be stubborn like that. "And it is our lot to live amongst them and do the best we can." He limped past her to the kitchen cupboard, pulling down a couple of bowls and setting them on the table. "Do you want to leave Skyrim?"

"What, be chased out of the country of my birth by a gang of uncivilised, racist thugs?" Isabel almost growled the rhetorical, moving to the cooking pot over the hearth, where the breakfast was cooking. "I don't think so."

"Then there is nothing we can do other than weather the storm. And you, my love, could quite possibly tell the clouds to stop raining if you were in the temper, so I have no worries there." He grinned at her, and she found herself grinning back as she ladled some of the porridge into the bowls on the table and sat down to eat. "Do you want to make the trip to Whiterun today?"

Isabel paused, considering her own mind, and then slowly shook her head. The sense of foreboding from her dream had not gone away, and Ennis' story had only added to the doubts in her mind. She was not sure what exactly it meant, or even if it meant anything at all, but there was disquiet in her heart that told her she did not want to travel anywhere, not today. "We'll make the run tomorrow. There's still a couple of things Mralki wanted Enchanted and there's no major rush. We'll still make it in time for the Merchant's Festival." She was careful of mentioning Mralki around Ereldur; they had fought on opposite sides in the Great War, after all, and though Ereldur was repentant for his sins, Isa got the feeling Mralki was not the type to forgive and forget. It was why the old Legionnaire approached Isa for his Enchanting needs, although she was Altmer herself, and why Ereldur would very rarely step foot in the Frostfruit.

"Your wish, as ever, is my command. Tomorrow, then."

And the day, for all its little nuances and differences, went on as it ever did.

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_Isabel's dream that night was dark and brutal, full of shouts and screams and the roar of fire, and she ran with flames on her heels, and shadows in her heart. Bodies hung from the darkness as she passed and they swung with the wind of her passing, faces she knew and faces she didn't, all of them cold and accusing and twisted. Behind her was the sensation of being chased, just out of sight, and above there was the leathery beat of wings and a voice, a voice like thunder, that cried out in her mind like a crash of lightning._

_Awake, Dovakhiin! Awake. They come._

And she woke up in a cold sweat with the sheets in a tangle around her body and Ereldur shaking her, calling her name, and in the distance she could hear shouts and screams and laughter, and the light burning outside the window was as bright as fire and as cold as the hatred of men.

TO BE CONTINUED.


	2. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

ONE YEAR BEFORE THE RETURN OF ALDUIN, BRINGER OF THE END TIMES

"What is it? What's happening?" The dream fled from Isabel's mind as reality came flooding back with a vengeance, banishing her tiredness as she struggled to sit up, trying to extract herself from the sticky layers of the sweat-damp bed. Outside the sounds of shouting and laughter had picked up, and the sickly sweet smell of smoke and burning wood drifted through the open window.

"Bandits." Ereldur's grimace was one of anger, and in the dark his eyes glinted with a light that had nothing to do with the small lamp hanging above their bed. "Vermin." He growled the word, releasing her arm and pushing himself awkwardly off the mattress, trying not to show how much his bad leg was struggling this late into the night. "They've set fire to Cowflop farm." The orange glow beyond the window picked out the details of his naked body for her eyes, dancing across the multiple scars and the uncomfortable set of his shattered hip. She frowned as he began to tug on the trousers he'd left by the side of the bed, not bothering with boots or a shirt as he retrieved his sword from where it lay resting within easy reach against the nearby chest. Reaching out with a hand she grabbed his wrist, forcing him to stop buckling the weapon about his waist and look at her.

"You're not seriously going out there?" She had intended her voice to sound stern and forbidding, but instead it came out as a whisper, worried and almost fearful. "Can you even lift that thing anymore?" She used her free hand to point at the sword at his hip, knowing full well the damage done to him during the Great War had all but crippled him, though he did not like to admit it. She highly doubted that, if bandits were indeed attacking her sleepy hamlet, he would be much use beyond target practice. "Don't be so ridiculous. The guards will deal with it. That's their job! Stay in here."

Ereldur frowned down at her as though he had never seen her before, and the look on his face was so full of disappointment that she felt her heart ache. He reached his maimed hand to touch her cheek, whilst his other gently pried her fingers from around the wrist. She did not resist. "Those are our neighbours out there, Isabel. Our friends. I will not hide under the bed like a coward whilst their homes are being burnt to the ground." He pressed a kiss to her forehead and slipped free, still buckling the belt tight as he wrenched open the door and half-ran, half-limped out into the chaos.

For a heartbeat she sat there in the bed, clutching blankets to her bare chest, before she scrambled to her feet, muttering and cursing to herself about stubborn and foolish husbands. His words and that look still played in her head, making her cheeks burn with shame and guilt, setting fire to her skin as she rummaged in the half-dark for her clothes. She was a Divines-damned coward, that was what she was, and Ereldur was a better man than she by far. She felt anger bubbling in her veins, anger directed at herself this time, and she pulled on her tunic and breeches with a vengeance. They had no other real weapon besides the sword Ereldur had taken, but she grabbed one of the kitchen knives anyway, if only to make herself feel slightly more dangerous, and took off bare foot into the night after her husband.

The horses screamed after her as she flew past them, panicked by the scent of fire and destruction, and she could hear them kicking merry hell out of the stall walls as she passed. A couple of sheep, free of their pen and in a fever of fear, fled past her, bleating nervously. Cowflop was on the opposite side of the hamlet as her and Ereldur's own abode, and so she was last on the scene when she vaulted over the fence bordering the farm and came to a dead stop, eyes wide and breath catching in her throat at what she saw.

A mismatched group of men and women, in rag-tag armour and wearing strange, face-concealing black masks, stood in a ring outside the burning building, barring the road, each with their weapon drawn and each looking like they only needed an excuse to start swinging. They outnumbered the small collection of Whiterun guards that had come running easily at two to one, and were currently keeping them at bay with shouts and threats. The guards looked tense, hands on weapons, but had not yet drawn them; the bandits were lean and murderous looking in the firelight, and they were not suicidal. She spotted Rorik and his faithful Jouane in the mix, also being kept back from the circle, and even Mralki the barkeep, who was swearing the night blue in disgust, but her eyes merely skimmed over them and kept searching the shadows. Where was Ereldur? She frowned and inched closer to the circle, tightening her grip on the little kitchen knife more for a feel of comfort than anything else, trying to see what was going on.

"My brothers, my sisters!" The voice came unexpectedly from the middle of the ring, cutting through the darkness like a knife through butter. It was a deep bass of a voice, almost pleasant, though it had a sneer in it, as though the speaker had trodden in something foul. "Good sons and daughters of Skyrim, fear not! We are here to cure you of this plague that walks our lands, of this pestilence that feeds upon our good will and then stabs us when our backs are turned!" A good number of the bandits cheered, half turning to look towards the speaker, and Isabel found herself rooted to the spot, captivated as a rabbit in headlights, as she saw what so held everyone's attention at the centre of the circle.

Reldith, in a torn, bloodied night shift, gagged and bound, knelt at the feet of a Nord almost twice the size of any other present. He too wore one of the unnatural masks, though his was fashioned into the body and wings of a bird, the details of which looked to be picked out in gold and which blazed in the light of the fire. He wore no armour; only a pair of trousers, boots and bracers, and his bare chest was covered in strange and macabre tattoos. Over his back was strung a great sword almost the size of a man, though he looked as though he could simply crush skulls with his bare hands if he so wanted. He had one massive foot resting on Reldith's back, bending her down towards the ground, and his arms opened wide as he addressed the horror-struck crowd.

"These Thalmor scum are poison, my friends! They come to our lands to take our jobs and our homes, and they seek to betray us to their precious Dominion masters! They would have us crawling on all fours like dogs, playing tricks for their foul magic-wielding King, but we say no! Skyrim is our land, our home! Skyrim is for the Nords, and they have no place in it!" The beast of a man kicked Reldith forwards and she sprawled out onto her chest, the cheery glow of the flames picking out the tears streaking the blood and dirt that lined her face. Isabel could hardly breathe, rooted to the spot in shock, though she could feel something, some wild thing, stirring in her chest, constricting her lungs and burning, burning hotter than fire, spreading quickly through her, melting the ice that seemed to have locked her bones. "These elves are treacherous and they must leave our lands or pay! But we are not barbarians." The voice seemed to be smiling, though there was no way of telling through the mask. "We come simply to give a warning, to pass on our message through the lands. We will allow you, the people of this great place, to choose which shall serve as our sacrifice to the great God Talos, in penance for trying to ban his worship. This witch-" And here the boot found Reldith again, kicking her so hard so rolled over onto her back with a choked cry. "-or this gallant hero, who so valiantly came charging in to save our damsel in distress!" And Isabel followed the large man's finger and her heart froze in her chest, because there, held upright on his knees with a hand in his hair and a blade at his throat, was Ereldur.

The Whiterun guards had drawn their weapons now and were shouting, cursing, though they were still being held back by the odds. She could hear Rorik himself over the din, trying to make himself heard, and there was a scream, a wild scream of pure rage and fury, that overtook everything and it was only as she lunged at the nearest bandit, stabbing furiously with her pitiful kitchen knife, that she realised it was coming from her. The man she'd pounced for was taken by surprise, and her knife found his throat as though it was where it was meant to be, and all around here there was pandemonium as his comrades snatched and swung for her and she slipped through, anger and fear giving wings to her feet as she rolled off the body and raced towards the bandit leader. She had left her knife buried in the neck of her victim, but she didn't really care, she didn't really need it, feeling the light inside her, the fire, rush through her body and flare out from her palms, bathing her blood-slick fingers in a light as fierce as the one that was claiming Cowflop.

She had no idea how the power worked, where the magicka came from, all she knew was that it was there, it had always been there, hungering to be used, scouring her veins clean of anything but the will to destroy. Fireballs flew from her palms as true as arrows, aiming at the men holding her husband, but suddenly the masked monster of a man was there, the blade of his great sword sweeping in an arc straight for her, and she ducked out of the way quick enough to avoid it cleaving her skull in two. Instead the point found her cheek and jaw, slicing through so deep she was sure it hit bone, knocking her to her knees with a jolt and a gasp of shock. Pain blazed up around her jaw but she found that adrenaline swallowed it, pushing it away until later, and she was back up on her feet in a bounce, the fire still glowing around her tan hands, facing the masked man. There were cries behind her, mingled with the definite sounds of metal on metal, and Ereldur was shouting, fighting free of the men holding him, but for the moment, all her attention focused on this one nightmare of a man.

"Another Thalmor bitch! This place must be ripe with maggots." The voice growled, the pleasant tone ugly with bile, and Isabel could see the eyes behind the mask were ablaze with a light that could only be called zealous. "Skyrim is for the Nords! You do not belong here!"

Isabel did not bother to answer, knowing there was nothing she could say that would make the situation any better, and instead tried to dart around him, to where she could see Ereldur wrestling with a bandit and his weapon. There were screams in the night, and she knew the blood on her hands was not the total of what was to be spilt, but the fury buoyed her heart and she found it hard to feel sorry for the waste of life. Instead she channelled all her hate and her anger into the power in her hands and threw it at the man with all her might, where it… exploded against a pale, pulsing barrier seemingly made out of glass and air and disintegrated into the darkness. She staggered sideways, surprised by how exhausted she suddenly felt, how drained. The man strode forwards, unchecked, unhurried, and grabbed her by the throat, dragging her off her feet and into the air. She was tall, for an Altmer, but he still held her high off the ground and squeezed at her throat as she kicked and pummelled against his grip. It was like kicking stone, for all he moved or reacted, his burning eyes instead fixated on hers.

"Weak, and pitiful. I thought you Thalmor dogs were supposed to be masters of the arcane?" He shook her, like a wronged puppy, and tightened his grip about her neck. "Perhaps you will be tonight's sacrifice instead. Talos will welcome the blood of one so frail but spirited!" He threw her down to the ground so hard it knocked out what little breath she had left in her, and she lay on the grit and soil gasping helplessly, unable to move, unable to speak or cry out. And oh, how she wanted to cry out, looking up into that dreadful mask, feeling fear unlike any other racing through her body, sending her heart hammering wildly in her ribcage like a bird in flight. The sounds of the little mini battle was still raging all around, but she had never felt so alone, or so lost, as she did in that few brief seconds of clarity.

The man had drawn his great sword again, the tip still stained in her blood, and placed it almost reverently against her tunic, just beneath where her ribs stopped, and bowed his head. She could just about make out his voice over the clamour, and what she heard made her try and will her body to move, to react, to do something other than lie there and gasp helplessly. "Talos, welcome this sacrifice in your name, that you might know our sins and forgive us. Know that we fight to restore your glory and your honour, and this death is but one of many to come!"

The blade lifted up, off her, and for a brief moment she thought she was saved, that some unseen force had come to the rescue, but then it plunged down again with all the force the man could muster, and she felt the blade bite through her flesh and bone, right through to the soil beneath. Shock flooded her, and strangely enough there was no pain, only surprise, as her hands grasped the sword protruding from her middle, slipping and sliding in her own life as she tried to somehow staunch the red that was spilling out. Was that all from her? How was that possible? Surely one body could not hold so much… Or was some of it that bandit's? His blood mingled with hers on her hands now, though, and she had no way of telling. Surely most of it was his?

The masked creature wrenched the blade back out and her body contorted in reaction, though there was still no pain. She tried to speak something, anything, but found there was blood in her mouth, too, choking her, and it bubbled on her lips and ran down her chin in a steady trickle. She lifted her hands, staring at the red that looked almost black in the firelight, and watched it ooze down her wrists and arms to stain her clothes. The fight must have moved further away from her now, because it all sounded very distant, almost as though she was underwater. And there was a familiar voice nearby shouting, screaming, calling her name… Ereldur? How could he be underwater, too? That was ridiculous… She must be dreaming; maybe it was another of the dragon dreams. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, she would wake up. Yes, that was what she had to do. It all made sense now.

Her bloodied hands fell back to the wound and lay there quite peacefully as she tilted her head back, watching the smoke from the fire dance up and out amongst the stars. Strange, wasn't it, how dreams could feel so real… She closed her eyes, with a wry smile, and let the darkness claim her.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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Reviews are appreciated :)


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